


Now I See Everything In A Different Light

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: I Think I'm On Another World With You [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teachers, Coal Hill School, F/F, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-03 18:59:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17289608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: Clara is absolutely certain that the new physics teacher at Coal Hill is mad. Blonde, bonkers and dressed in a wholly impractical coat, yet... somehow Clara's already in love with her. She's not entirely sure how this came to pass.





	Now I See Everything In A Different Light

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic grew out of [this drabble,](http://universe-on-her-shoulders.tumblr.com/post/181547375440/13clara-human-au-where-theyre-both-teachers) because I just couldn't let the idea go and it intrigued me. (Also lots of you asked.)
> 
> Special thanks to ehmori, avidwhovian and Billie for checking the section about pansexuality for me. 
> 
> Yes, I named this fic after a line from an ABBA song. I regret nothing.

The new physics teacher bounds into the staffroom just as Armitage is wrapping things up for the morning’s staff meeting. Clara presumes she’s the new physics teacher, at any rate – she’s blonde and out of breath and wearing a truly ridiculous jacket that looks like the kind of thing her mum might have worn in the eighties. 

“Sorry m’late,” the stranger pants, doubling over and honest-to-god sticking her hands on her knees as she catches her breath. Clara is unaccustomed to anyone doing such a thing outside of sitcoms, and it’s strangely endearing in a madcap sort of way. “Not used to this Underground thing yet.” 

The woman straightens up and flashes the assembled, bemused staff of Coal Hill a bright smile. “Nice to meet you all, I’m Sephy Smith. Physics. Science-y stuff in general. Bit of a dork. Please note that’s Sephy, like ‘Steph’ but with no ‘t’ and a ‘y,’ not Sophie with an ‘o’ and an ‘ie’. You can try calling me Sophie but it probably won’t get you anywhere, so I just want to clear that up in advance.” 

Her eyes find Clara… is she imagining it, or did the grin just get wider? Clara doesn’t have time to ruminate on it before Armitage gives an awkward little cough and goes over to the new arrival, taking her by the elbow and leading her off into a corner while muttering quietly to her in a manner that entirely conveys his displeasure about her timekeeping. 

Clara knows only three things.

Firstly, the new physics teacher is quite possibly mad.

Secondly, the new physics teacher is, much like her, northern, and thus an immediate ally in a school full of southerners. 

Thirdly, she’s already madly in love with her.

 

* * *

 

Of course, they don’t actually _speak to each other._ She’s an English teacher; Miss Smith is a physics teacher. Chalk and cheese; two sides of completely different coins. Clara’s used to the scorn of science teachers; she vividly remembers Miss Smith’s predecessor, and shudders at the memory of the scathing looks and biting comments and – just once, when drink had been taken – _actual_ biting, and kissing, and quite a lot more, before a hasty and embarrassed exit the next morning. The recollection of that tinges her cheeks so pink that her students notice, and she has to fumble an excuse about the school’s archaic heating system and bury her head in her marking until she returns to an approximately normal colour.

Miss Smith does not, upon initial observation, seem to share any of her predecessor’s haughtiness or cold manner. She’s warm and effervescent and she bounces around the school like a kid who’s had too much sherbet, handing out vegan jelly babies and beaming at bleary-eyed teenagers who mutter things under their breath about the weird new physics teacher.

Clara’s not entirely sure about it all, to be honest. She’s inherently suspicious of anyone who has that much vigour for life at 8:30 on a Friday morning, and inherently suspicious of anyone who teaches physics – her least favourite subject at school, and one that she had failed to excel in, much to her own consternation. Still, for the sake of forming a holistic opinion on every member of staff at Coal Hill, she listens to what her students mutter about Miss Smith in voices they think she can’t hear, and she gleans the following:

The new physics teacher is _definitely_ mad. 

The vegan jelly babies are, as far as the students are concerned, definitely some kind of bribery. 

The new physics teacher speaks faster than any other teacher in the whole school, except perhaps her, and she feels a stab of pride about this fact. 

Despite this, there seems to be a general attitude of fondness permeating the students’ sentiments towards her, and Clara cannot help but feel the same – as she watches Miss Smith bounce around the staffroom with her fellow science teachers, loudly chatting about almost anything that comes to mind, it’s impossible to find her irritating. She suffuses the air around her with an aura of warmth and exuberance that seems catching, and Clara longs to be in the same circle as her – to bask in that warmth, and to revel in that child-like exuberance. She longs to speak to her, but each time she considers it she feels foolish – what would she say? what would they discuss? – and so she hangs back, afraid and unsure. 

She watches. She waits. And she yearns.

 

* * *

 

The first time they find themselves alone together in a room, Clara almost dies at the sheer thrill of it. It’s post-Monday morning staff meeting, and all other teachers have fled the room following Armitage’s closing remarks. Clara’s somewhat distracted from the prospect of escape by the loss of her favourite pen, so she’s groping around in her bag when she realises she’s not the only teacher who has remained behind.

“Are you alright?” Miss Smith  asks, and Clara shoots upright so fast she’s surprised she doesn’t get whiplash, her cheeks immediately starting to burn. The physics teacher is leaning against the counter beside the kettle, surveying her over a mug of tea. “Do you need a hand?” 

“No, I… uh, no… I’m ah… I’ve…” 

“Lost something?” 

“Yeah,” Clara mumbles, mentally kicking herself for her own lack of articulation and coherent thought. It wasn’t so difficult to string a sentence together, was it? She was an English teacher, goddammit, she should have a way with words. “My fountain pen. It was ah… it was a gift, a few years ago.” 

Miss Smith considers this nugget of information, tilting her head to the side and chewing on her lower lip. “Tip the bag out.” 

“Are you mad? It’ll go everywhere!” 

“A little yes,” she grins, flicking her eyebrows heavenwards in a non-verbal challenge. “Go on, tip it onto the sofa. It’ll be easier, and besides, it’s already a mess from all your rummaging. It’ll be easier like that.” 

Clara hesitates for a moment and then does as she’s bid, tipping the contents over the battered sofa cushions and immediately locating the offending pen. 

“A-ha!” she holds it aloft, and it’s then that she notices Miss Smith staring at her, an unreadable expression on her face. Noticing Clara’s curious gaze, she snaps out of it almost at once and offers her a shy smile that seems utterly at odds with her usual manner. 

“Yes! Nice work, Miss Oswald.” 

“You… you know my name?”

“Of course I know your name.” 

Their eyes meet and there’s a long, pregnant pause, broken by the sound of the bell ringing in the distance. They both look at the clock in unison, the spell broken, and Clara wants to sigh but can’t. 

“We should go,” Miss Smith says quietly, already starting towards the door with an expression that Clara can’t interpret. “Classes to teach.” 

“Yeah,” Clara concurs, finding herself abruptly breathless for no conceivable reason. “I guess we should.”

 

* * *

 

The second time they find themselves in the same room, it’s to discuss a student. April MacLean’s not a bad student, really, just more interested in books than people, but there’s a shy fragility there that concerns her teachers enough to drive them to meet to discuss her. 

Well. 

Two of her teachers, at any rate. _The ones that care,_ Clara tells herself cynically.

Miss Smith pauses at the end of a long, passionate interjection about safeguarding young people’s welfare, and Clara wants to kiss her, she really does. She’s been striding around Clara’s classroom, talking about her students and their wellbeing and treating them with compassion with such fervent passion that Clara could cry. Enthusiasm radiates out of her every pore, and it’s so contagious that Clara gets to her feet and leans against her desk, feeling newly optimistic about April’s future. 

“Do you see?” Miss Smith asks seriously, and it’s then that Clara realises she hasn’t listened to a word the physics teacher has been saying, so engrossed was she in appreciating Miss Smith’s dedication.

“Yes,” Clara concurs, because that’s easier than explaining that she was so enraptured by watching her colleague speak that all language processing faculties have shut down in her brain, and she forces herself to nod sagely. “Yes, I do, Miss Smith.”

“Sephy, please. Any questions?” 

“Why the jelly babies?” Clara blurts, for want of anything more intelligent to contribute, and Sephy’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. 

“Sweets bring people together, Clara,” she explains, and Clara feels an inexplicable little thrill at the sound of her name in Sephy’s mouth. First names. First names seem much more intimate than the titles they’re used to, and this feels both friendly and yet dangerous too. “These aren’t just vegan; they’re sugar free, halal, kosher, and about eight other things I can’t quite bring to mind at present. You know why they’re those things? You know why I order them off Amazon in bulk? Because they level the playing field. We’ve got kids here of such diverse backgrounds, and these sweets can be eaten by anyone. No discrimination. No discrepancy. Just sweets.” 

“Can I have one?” Clara asks dumbly, feeling her heart pound in her chest, and to her relief Sephy laughs and reaches into an inner pocket of her ridiculous, adorable coat for the paper bag she seems to keep on her person at all times. The lining falls open as she does so, and it’s then that Clara sees the strip of rainbow ribbon sewn just inside the zip, and feels her heart stop – fully stop – for a good few seconds. It takes a moment for her to realise that Sephy is holding the bag out to her expectantly, and she reaches for one on autopilot. 

“Are you gay?” 

She freezes as she realises what her mouth has blurted out, the jelly baby in her fingers suspended halfway between the bag and her lips. She immediately wants to retract the question, her cheeks burning in shame at being so forthright, but to her surprise Sephy only laughs again, seeming entirely unflustered by the question.

“In a sense, yes.” 

The answer is so lacking is self-consciousness or chastisement or embarrassment that Clara feels some of her own mortification melt away. 

“In a sense?” she dares to ask, sticking the jelly baby in her mouth and chewing furiously as she waits for an answer. 

She watches Sephy’s face scrunch up in obvious uneasiness, and starts to stammer an apology before the physics teacher says in a rush: 

“Women, men, everything in between, not fussed about gender. Love is love.” 

She looks at Clara with concern, visibly worried about what her reaction will be, and seems relieved when Clara nods understandingly. 

“Pan, then?”

“Yeah,” some of the tension leaves her shoulders. “Uh, what about you? If that’s not too rude.” 

“You can’t be too rude when I’ve just straight-up asked if you’re a lesbian,” Clara notes, and Sephy laughs, properly laughs, and Clara knows in that instant that all she wants is to make her do that again. “Both ways, me. Rubbish bisexual from Blackpool.” 

“Hopeless pansexual from Skelmanthorpe,” Sephy holds out her hand, mock-formal, and they shake like they’re conducting a job interview. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

 

* * *

 

The jelly babies and accompanying conversation seem to break down some kind of wall between them, because after that Sephy starts spending more and more time in Clara’s classroom. Breaktimes, lunchtimes, after school – at first there are small excuses, like discussing a student or clarifying a question about the school building, but as time passes, Clara comes to realise that Sephy seems to actually _want_ to spend time with her. 

Her self-consciousness increasingly melts away as their friendship grows, and she gets to know more about Sephy Smith with each passing day. Christened Persephone – she explains that with a contemptuous, self-deprecating eyeroll – by bohemian parents, she’d sparked outrage when she’d refused to stick it to the man and instead become ‘part of the system’ by joining the public sector. It’s clear from how she talks about them that Sephy bears them no ill will, and they seem to have come to terms with the idea now, but Clara feels a pang of sympathy as she explains the terseness that accompanied her first few terms at university, and shrugs it off with the kind of casual manner that Clara knows belies the hurt inevitably caused. 

All of Sephy’s stories are told with an air of warm familiarity that makes Clara feel like she’s come home from a long journey; she is treated always as an inherent equal and long-lost friend, in a manner that is entirely lacking in self-consciousness or criticism. Everything to her is wondrous and positive; everything is tinged with a rosy glow that is somehow both acutely concerning and yet wholly charming. Lesser people might assume Sephy’s outlook to be based in naivety or blind optimism, but Clara can sense a steel core running through her; an undercurrent of ferocity that signals to her that this woman was forged in fire. 

She reveals her own story too, in fits and starts; small details dribbled out, wary as she is to overload her new friend with too much information. She keeps it broadly chronological, detailing the loss of her mother, and then her father’s subsequent remarriage to her stepmonster, and then her planned flight to… well, the rest of the world, anywhere and everywhere, before that plan was scuppered and she found herself nannying two motherless children, her heart bleeding empathically for them with each breath she took.

The last thing she tells her about is Danny. Sweet, kind, good Danny, and the accident that took him away from her for good. 

Sephy lays her hand on her shoulder at that, and draws her into their first hug. It feels oddly familiar – like she’d known her before, or they’d embraced in a past life – and she allows herself to exhale, trying to let go of the sadness that has snuck up on her the way it always does when she thinks of Danny. 

“I’m sorry,” Sephy breathes, clinging to Clara like a lifeline. 

“Don’t be,” Clara murmurs, then adds in a broken voice: “This hug is really nice.”

 

* * *

 

When Sephy suggests they get coffee together, Clara almost short-circuits in sheer delight. She accepts with joyous gratitude, and when Sephy slides over her number, scrawled on the edge of what Clara strongly suspects to be a physics textbook, she feels her heart leap at the prospect.

She texts Sephy at lunchtime; nothing prosaic or poetic, nothing more than a simple ‘hey’ to ensure that they both have each other’s number saved. 

The response comes almost at once.

 _Hey!_  

Clara isn’t looking at that. 

She’s looking at the little love-heart emoji after the exclamation mark, and wondering precisely what it means.

 

* * *

 

Clara did not, perhaps, consider the ramifications of buying a hyperactive physics teacher a coffee. 

She’d like to say she regrets it, but as she watches Sephy talk at a million miles an hour from her spot on a cracked coffee shop sofa beside her, all she can do is smile, and sip her latte, and wonder what precisely she did in a past life to deserve a date with a woman like this. 

“You’re looking at me funny,” Sephy notes after several minutes, setting her mug down and taking a breath for what seems like the first time since they plonked down on the sofa. “You do that a lot. Are you OK?” 

“Mm?” Clara blinks herself out of her reverie, wrapping her hands around her mug and feeling her cheeks burn at being caught out. “Sorry. Just… thinking about things.” 

“Such as?” 

“You.” 

“Me?” 

“Yeah,” she drops her gaze to the table top and says in a rush: “You’re very pretty.” 

“I’m very what?” Sephy asks, and when Clara looks up at her she realises she’s grinning. “Could you maybe say that again?” 

“Very pretty,” Clara says more confidently, feeling increasingly bold. “And also very cute.” 

“Am I now?” Sephy raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to kiss me, then?” 

“I…” Clara just gapes at her, unable to conceal her shock. “Am I… you…” 

“Clara, contrary to what most students think, and at least half of the staff as well, I’m not as stupid as I appear.” 

“I never thought…” 

“I know, but what I’m trying to get at is that I’d quite like to kiss you, if that’s something you’d like too.”

“I…” Clara manages to pick her jaw up off the floor enough to stutter out: “Yes. Please. Very much so, please and thank you.” 

“There we go.” 

Sephy leans over and places her hand on Clara’s cheek, their eyes locking as she gently and cautiously brushes her lips against Clara’s with the barest pressure. It’s all too brief and all too tender and then she’s pulling away, but Clara reaches for her instinctively, pulling her back towards her and crashing their lips together in a chaotic muddle of a kiss that is altogether less reserved than the first. Sephy tastes of coffee and caramel syrup, and Clara briefly recalls the red lipstick she’s wearing before abandoning all sense of caution and propriety and giving herself over to the kiss completely. 

They break apart only when they hear a polite cough, looking over and realising with horror that April MacLean is stood staring at them in awestruck wonder. Clara thanks her lucky stars that the teenager doesn’t have her phone out, because this is precisely the kind of thing to end up on Snapchat, so there is at least that small mercy to be grateful for. 

“Urm,” April begins, blinking hard as she looks between the two of them. “Hi, Miss Oswald. Hi, Miss Smith.” 

“Hi, April,” Sephy says with winning confidence, as Clara opens and closes her mouth uselessly. “Maybe keep this to yourself, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” April agrees with a shy smile. “Urm, have a lovely weekend.” 

She shuffles out of Starbucks looking wholly embarrassed about the whole thing, and the two women break into giggles. 

“Well,” Clara manages after a moment, biting back a groan. “That’ll be all over Facebook by… the end of the day?” 

“I think so,” Sephy concurs, grinning bashfully. “Oops.” 

“Oops.”

 

* * *

 

On Monday morning, they are met at school by knowing looks and titters, and that’s just from the staff. It’s hard not to blush, and yet somehow Clara manages it, keeping her head held high and refusing to be drawn into discussions about the weekend’s activities. No, she doesn’t want to talk about what happened in Starbucks. No, she doesn’t want to tell them what happened afterwards. No, she doesn’t want to be drawn into a discussion about her sexuality. No, no, no. None of that is anyone’s business but hers and Sephy’s, thank you very much.

She doesn’t let the students fluster her, despite the inevitable questions and comments. When Sephy stops by at lunchtime, she allows her composure to slip for the first time, and at once she sees Sephy do the same. The two of them exchange a knowing look, weaving their hands together and exhaling heavily.

“Have you been getting…” she begins, swallowing thickly and squeezing Sephy’s hands before continuing. “ _Stuff_ all day?” 

“Yep,” Sephy sighs sadly, a small smile creeping over her face. “But the good is outweighing the bad, so I can’t bring myself to be too angry. Three students have come out to me since this morning, so there’s that?” 

“I suppose. No one’s come out to me, am I scarier than you?” 

“Infinitely.”

“Rude.” 

“I’d kiss you to boost your spirit, but I don’t think that would be appropriate at work.”

“The thought is appreciated,” Clara smiles at her gratefully. “Very much so.”

 

* * *

 

“So,” Sephy asks one evening, several weeks later, as the two of them are curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine apiece and a terrible film playing in the background. Neither of them are really paying much attention to it – they’re too wrapped up in each other; in languidly kissing from time to time, holding each other close, and in exchanging quiet words about the film or their week or life in general.

Clara’s attention snaps to Sephy at once, disconcerted by her serious tone. “So?” 

“So, are you going to be my girlfriend?” Sephy asks, and Clara blinks at her in absolute bafflement. “Oh, god, is that a no? Please don’t let it be a no; I might actually cry. I really like you, and I really-”  

“Are… are you _not_ my girlfriend?” Clara enquires. “I mean, is that not what this is?” 

“Oh,” Sephy says dumbly, a smile creeping back over her face. “Oh. I… I knew that. I just wanted to be absolutely 100% sure.” 

“Course you did.” 

“So, you’re my girlfriend?” 

“Yes, you div, I’m your girlfriend.”

 

* * *

 

Graffiti starts to appear around the school.

Clara’s seen the like before; the same phrasing, the same handwriting. The same maddeningly permanent marker. 

 _Ozzie loves the blondie._  

She’d like to be cross about it, but as she stares at the first such example, her hand in Sephy’s in the darkening corridor, all she can do is smile and shake her head. Teenagers. Forever the same; forever incorrigible. 

“We’re quite the topic of conversation, aren’t we?” 

“So it would seem.”

 

* * *

 

The students, as time passes, become used to the idea. It’s not unusual for them to see Miss Oswald and Miss Smith arrive together in the morning on the back of Miss Oswald’s motorbike, or strolling in together in something dangerously akin to matching sunglasses. It’s not unusual to see them stood together at breaktime or lunchtime, exchanging a few words that if overheard might betray their plans for dinner that evening, or a trip to the theatre. It’s not unusual to see one of them waiting for the other at the end of the school day, their eyes lighting up as they draw closer.

It becomes considered unusual, nay downright irregular, to ask them questions about it, or to give them grief about it. It becomes unusual to challenge them on it, or to bait them into discussing each other. New students who want to upset the status quo are brought down a peg or two by their peers; reminded that Coal Hill is Not That Sort of School, and sent on their merry way – which usually involves a direct route to the staffroom to apologise. Even April MacLean, whose shy grin belays her ‘accidental’ spreading of information to the school becomes a fierce ally, in an attempt to undo the so-called harm that stemmed from that initial piece of gossip. 

The teachers too become acclimatised to it. There’s some uncertainty at first, and some resentment – some of their colleagues recall Danny, and recall what he meant to Clara – before they take note of the women’s joy and genuine affection and relent to the path of happiness. After that, there’s dinner invites, and cinema trips, and an all-round attempt to make them feel included.

Clara doesn’t have the words to express it. She’s yearned for this for so long; yearned to feel part of something once again in the wake of all that she’s lost, and now, with Sephy, there’s a feeling of completeness and of being home. There’s a feeling of being accepted, and being loved – not just by Sephy, but by the students, by the staff, by their friends and even, dare she say it, by their families. She thinks it’s Sephy’s influence – the warmth that she suffuses to everything she touches and everyone she meets. She never considers that it could be her too.

She never considers that she’s just as lovable as her hopeless, space-obsessed physics teacher girlfriend.

 

* * *

 

“Oi!” 

They’re walking down a road in Shoreditch late one Saturday afternoon when the yell comes, and Clara knows at once what it precipitates. She’s heard that tone before – a tone pitched somewhere between contempt, disgust, and anger. She knows what it signals, and she knows what’s about to come next, and so she squeezes Sephy’s hand all the tighter and exchanges a look with her partner. It’s a silent look, but one that conveys several crucial questions: _Do we acknowledge him? Do we stop? Do we say something_? 

“Oi!” the offender repeats, and Clara wants to groan at his manners alone. The last time she’d had to deal with this, the perpetrator had at least had the good manners to start an actual conversation with her first. “Dykes! I’m talking to you, yeah?” 

Sephy lets go of Clara’s hand and turns on the spot, Clara following her movement and taking in the sight of a young man no older than twenty, who is stood with a youngster that Clara recognises from her Year 9 English class. The student in question looks mortified by the whole affair, and Clara deduces almost at once that this must be an older brother – one unaccustomed to seeing something as innocuous as two women holding hands. 

“Yes?” Sephy asks politely, and something about that seems to trip the young man up for a moment. “Can we help you?” 

“Yeah, dykes. My brother says you teach him at school.” 

“That’s correct. Hello, Jayden.” 

The student turns crimson in response to being acknowledged, stepping behind his brother without acknowledging the greeting. 

“I don’t think that’s right, is it? They can’t let dykes teach in schools now, s’not proper.” 

“I’d like to point out,” Sephy says in a flat tone, her expression hardening. “That I’m actually not a lesbian, and nor is my girlfriend, and even if we were then neither of us are in any way related to drainage ditches, so if you could stop using that word, that’d be grand. It’s not only offensive, it’s factually inaccurate.” 

“What, you holding hands with your friends now?” the young man sniggers. “Dykes.” 

“Stop it,” his younger brother mumbles, tugging at his brother’s arm in a bid to discourage him from continuing any further. “Come on, they’re alright.” 

“They’re not alright. They’re-” 

“I think you’ve made your point,” Clara says icily, finding her voice at last. “And I think you’re showing your brother up.” 

There’s a long, terse silence, and then the youngster spits on the floor at their feet and stalks off, Jayden in tow. He shoots them an apologetic look that they both acknowledge with a nod, before taking each other’s hands once again. 

“Well,” Clara lets out a long breath. “Thank god Jayden is more switched on.” 

“He’s the future,” Sephy concurs, giving her hand a grateful squeeze. “A much better one.”

 

* * *

 

They’re most of the way around the National Gallery, paused in front of one of Van Gogh’s _Sunflowers_ , when Clara has a realisation. She’s watching Sephy talk about art and colour and Impressionism and France in the late 19thcentury, eternally lacking in self-awareness, her hair tucked behind her ears and her hands gesticulating wildly, when she knows, for the first time, what this is. _This_ , this sense of comfortable familiarity and warmth; _this,_ the way they seem to understand each other without so much as needing to speak. She knows what it is, and she supposes it should frighten her, but it doesn’t. Everything seems to fit together at last.

Something about her expression must change, because Sephy draws to a breathless halt, frowning at her in evident concern.

“What is it?” she asks, tucking her hair behind her ear and looking abruptly sheepish. “Sorry, am I going on too much? I can stop, if you need me to-” 

“No, you’re not going on too much,” Clara assures her, shaking her head at once and trying to conceal her grin. “Nothing like that. I’ve just realised something, that’s all.” 

“Realised what?” 

“That I’m in love with you.”

“That you’re…” Sephy stares at her in mute awe, unable to finish the sentence. 

“In love with you. Have been from the first moment I saw you. I thought then that it was just a silly crush but… it’s not. It’s really not; it’s so much more than that, and so much better. Being with you is just… it’s like everything finally makes sense.” 

“You’re…” Sephy stammers, and her inability to form a coherent sentence would be worrying if it weren’t under these circumstances. “You… that is… you’re…” 

“Actually in love with you. Madly. Irrevocably. And I want to be yours forever, if you’ll have me.” 

“Are you asking me to marry you?” Sephy asks, blinking rapidly and finally regaining her ability to speak. “And telling me you love me in one go?” 

“Yes,” Clara says with absolute sincerity. “Yes, I am.” 

“Well,” Sephy swallows, and Clara worries for one awful, panicked moment that she might be about to rebuff her; that she might have misread this whole thing and got things completely wrong. “It’s a good thing I’m completely and brilliantly in love with you too, isn’t it?” 

Clara’s heart soars, and her face splits into an enormous, all-consuming grin. “So, is that…” 

“A yes. Of course. Of course, of course, of course, yes. Of course I’ll marry you. A thousand times over.”

 

* * *

 

Clara looks down at her phone, smiling as she reads the end of the email that’s just been delivered to her inbox. Sephy plonks herself down opposite her, setting two cocktails down on the crisp linen tablecloth and then flicking her gaze over to the illuminated cityscape outside.

“What are you grinning at?” she asks, taking a sip of her own drink as she looks back to Clara with a smile. 

“School newsletter.” 

“You’re not supposed to be thinking about school. We’re on our honeymoon, remember?” 

“Well, this is definitely a good reason to be,” she hands Sephy the phone, unable to conceal her little grin of pride. “See?” 

_And lastly, Coal Hill School would like to congratulate Miss Clara Oswald (English) and Miss Sephy Smith (Physics) on their marriage. The couple wed on Saturday 17 thJune, and have advised that any well-wishers can make donations to the Stonewall charity on their behalf. They would like to thank both students and parents for their support and acceptance._

“Yes,” Sephy says with a reciprocal smile. “I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> The Doctor being called Sephy (Persephone) is something I did for the first time in [this fic,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16800247) and it just kinda stuck.


End file.
